King of Avalon: a Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance (Rise of the Elder Gods Book 2)

by Vivienne Savage

  “Hell no.”

  “Thatta girl.”

  Five

  Nate’s Jeep slid into the parking lot of a deserted police station that had seen better days. Arthur had never entered the meeting hall in San Diego. By the time he’d come into his power as an adult, it was long demolished by the Titans.

  Only two other vehicles occupied the space, and Arthur could assign them to their owner at a glance. The sleek and stylish sports car had to belong to Lancelot. The practical SUV was probably Percival’s ride.

  He whistled when he noticed the yellow Yamaha parked between them. “Who owns the crotch rocket?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me,” Nate replied, grinning.

  “So what’s the story here? Why a police station?”

  “The city decided it would cost more money to refurbish this place than to demolish it and start new in another location. We, ah, kinda intervened.”

  Arthur whistled. “How much did it cost?” Now that money was a concern to them. Their wealth carried on from one life to the next, secured by trinkets, gold, and jewels. They’d stockpiled relics and wealth.

  “Cost?” The other man laughed. “As far as they know, this shit hole was pushed over and flattened. Merlin wove a few enchantments of perpetual disillusionment. They don’t see it. They don’t remember it. If anyone passes by, they’ll see only rubble and gravel.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “We thought so.”

  “What about satellites?”

  “We don’t worry about that shit. Ian has us covered.”

  “Who?”

  “Ian Mac—” Nate paused. “I guess that name won’t mean shit to you if he’s long dead in your timeline. Anyway, we have a friend in a high place. A shifter named Ian out in Texas commands a military spec-ops team of paranormal individuals. We get a lot of help from him.”

  “Got it. Man, we could have used a man like him in my timeline. I—” Now is the time to do the things we weren’t able to before. “We need to contact him.”

  “I hoped you’d say that. Come on. I’ll introduce you to the others, then we’ll get Ian on the phone.”

  They headed inside and into the lobby. From the moment he stepped inside, Arthur recognized the laughter of Tristram. Nobody else had such a ridiculous snort. When Merlin promised to gather the Knights of the Round Table, he exceeded expectations. Arthur entered the hall with Nate at his side and found each present save for the traitors who had joined the Titans.

  The laughter abruptly stopped, and five gazes landed on Arthur, each in a face that tickled his memories. The eyes never changed and remained those of close friends and brothers in arms. They were the same men with the same mannerisms, copied into unfamiliar guises.

  Together as one, they all rose to their feet, young and old faces, white and brown-skin, an old order modernized.

  “My king,” said the eldest present.

  “Percivale,” Arthur said, moving forward to meet him.

  “Damn. I guess Merlin isn’t suffering a bout of dementia after all. You’re really here,” said another, the man mid-thirties and blond. His charismatic smile aimed at Arthur, then he bowed.

  “Lancelot.”

  Not for the first time, Arthur wondered how things may have changed if he had been around. Maybe they would have looked to him for guidance instead of seeking new leaders. Arthur had a thousand questions he would ask Kay, Pelleas, and Gareth. No answers would bring back the needlessly slaughtered dragons taken down on Kay’s orders.

  Initial reservation broke, and the men flooded him with jovial grins, Lancelot and Percivale at the rear of the cluster taking turn embracing Arthur as a brother.

  “Dude, you don’t know how good it feels to have you back with us again,” Gawain said, clasping Arthur’s hand in his. The knight couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two in his current body, but his eyes held the wisdom of centuries. “It’s been a long time. Kay really fucked shit up while you were gone, man.”

  “Yeah, I heard. In the future, I mean. From you guys.”

  “What’s the plan? Tell me you got a plan, bro,” Lancelot said. “If everything is as dire as Merlin said, swords aren’t going to cut it. We’re gonna need tanks and choppers—the whole nine yards.”

  “Is it that dire?” Lionell asked nervously. As the youngest among them, he hadn’t regained his memory yet of the old times, the previous lifetimes in battle, and the ways of the knighthood. He would remember soon. He’d have to if he was to survive the war ahead, even if Arthur loathed the idea of sending teenagers into a fight against Titans.

  He’d been younger the first time he fought the mad giants and their lackeys.

  “It’s every bit as dire as the old man said, and maybe even worse. Sit down, guys. We got a lot of ground to cover.”

  By the time he finished his tale of the future, none of the knights smiled, their celebration short-lived and expressions sobered by the reality of what lay ahead. Looking at their tired faces reminded Arthur that he’d set the safety of the world at their feet.

  “Jesus,” Tristram said, first to break the silence.

  “Knowledge is one-half of the battle,” Percivale said from his seat at the round table. “We have been given a great gift that Arthur can share such detail with us predicting the movements of the Titans.”

  “Knowledge won’t be enough,” Tristam cut in. “These Titans have had years to gain strength and power. Especially with Bedivere and Pelleas as their lackeys.”

  Gawain yawned into one hand. “Yeah. You’re all forgetting the danger Bedivere and Pelleas pose to the rest of us. They know everything. They know our secrets and weaknesses—how to twist them to their advantage.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, but we also know theirs. Remember that.” Percivale rubbed his face.

  “It also means we need to be unpredictable to them. Normally, we’d handle this on our own,” Nate said. “We gotta bring the other supes into it. Lancelot was right about us needing everything we can throw at them. We need MacArthur and the witches. The more we have on our side, the fewer casualties we’ll all face.”

  Lancelot blinked blearily at him. “Yeah. Good idea, man. You gonna make that call, or should Perce?”

  “I will.” Percivale glanced down at his phone. He slammed his coffee in a few quick gulps. “I better get another of these.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Tristram said. “Make mine a double espresso.”

  “Sure thing.”

  As Percivale excused himself to the machine on the table against the wall, Arthur twisted around to look at the other exhausted faces around the table. Each of them, save for Nate, appeared at the very edge of exhaustion. Gawain’s chin fell to his chest, and Lancelot’s head tipped back.

  “Something’s wrong,” Nate said. He placed one hand on Lancelot’s shoulder and shook him. When the man failed to rouse, he slapped his cheek. Across the room, Percivale slid to the floor, and the ceramic mug in his hand shattered.

  “Fuck!” Arthur shouted, moving from his seat and rushing toward his fallen friend.

  Worried green eyes—the same eyes shared with Arthur now—raised to make contact. “This isn’t an ordinary sleep,” Nate said. “It’s almost like—”

  “A faerie enchantment,” both men spoke at once.

  Danger sizzled across his senses. Together, Arthur and Nate drew their swords. Every knight’s weapon was bonded to his soul, conjured with a thought. Excalibur answered his call, shimmering into existence. Instinct told him to move and guided his muscles. The blade flew up and deflected a dart of dark energy, congealed shadow in the shape of a knife. Excalibur’s enchanted steel blazed in the presence of the creatures melding from the shadows.

  The hall had never been guarded against the fae.

  Arthur had never needed to fear them.

  The three shadows gained substance, thin and willowy, wraithlike beings with spindly black fingers and eyes that burned blue fire. They were beautiful in the way spiders w
ere, visibly dangerous but a marvel of physics and nature.

  “Why are you here?” Nate demanded.

  They did not reply. Few assassins did.

  The three approached, little more than silhouettes flickering in and out of existence with each step. Each held a dagger, and that dagger dripped with a thick, black syrupy substance. Arthur didn’t want to bet his draconic regeneration against anything concocted by the fae.

  “That treacherous bitch,” Nate swore.

  Immediately, despite their state of imminent peril, Arthur couldn’t help the protective surge of indignance he felt on Nimue’s behalf. “We don’t know it was her.”

  “Who else has connections to the fae realm?”

  Arthur couldn’t answer that, nor did they have time to argue and debate the situation. The fae came at them with serpentine reflexes, gangly limbs able to stretch and twist like the writhing shadow that composed their forms. They lashed out and tried to sneak around his guard, appearing disinterested in Nate, fending off his attacks with casual ease.

  Almost as if they were toying with him.

  Each time one sliced the air within Arthur’s vicinity, an acrid odor wafted toward him from the glistening blades. The stench scorched his nostrils and burned its way into his sinuses. His throat itched.

  All at once, he knew the mystery substance and the danger it posed to him. After all, Arthur had once employed dragonsbane himself against the great wyrms threatening his kingdom centuries ago. As a human king, Arthur never minded the smell of dragonsbane. It has a sweet, almost clean scent, like that of mint and frankincense. As a dragon, it wrenched a dry cough from him that was nearly his undoing.

  He had to keep a cool head. The moment he let down his guard—one mistake—and any of his assailants could plunge poison into his heart.

  All his adult life, Arthur had always believed a Titan would take him down. He imagined an enormous fist would squish him to jelly or that their command of the elements and the power surging through them would overcome Excalibur.

  Instead, fate threw a trio of assassins at him.

  He parried and moved, relying on fast footwork to remain out of range. “I don’t know why you fae would be in league with the Titans, but you’ve chosen the wrong side. Don’t you know that once they finish with our world, Elfhame will be next?”

  One fae sneered, sharp teeth eerily bright against the featureless, bald skull of its humanoid face. A blade whistled in, only for Nate to deflect the blow and throw his body into the fae. It had enough substance for him to thrust it away, buying Arthur time to recover.

  When they’re attacking, they’re vulnerable.

  Otherwise, his attacks passed through their bodies. The one taken down by Nate had already jumped to its feet again to resume the attack.

  “Your armor, Arthur! You need your armor!”

  “Yeah...about that.” Arthur hadn’t summoned the celestial armor since his last death over a hundred and forty years ago.

  Nate’s incredulous expression told him he’d come to that conclusion. “Are you serious?!”

  Whenever a Knight of the Round Table died, his armor and his sword vanished. When Merlin imbued them with long life, he’d also bound their weapons and armor to their souls. Donning the suit of armor should have been as natural as breathing.

  But it wasn’t. Hell, if he, the Merlin of the future, or any of the other surviving knights had known why.

  The following strikes from his sword became a dangerous game of parries and counterstrikes. He thrust a fae’s dagger away from him and carried through with the attack, slicing the creature across the chest. Black ichor splashed from the wound, and black vapor rose from the inky liquid splattered across the floor.

  “It isn’t too late to end this foolishness.”

  One of the fae lunged at him. He saw the strike coming from a mile away and sidestepped while arcing Excalibur toward the creature in a mighty swing, cleaving its ribs. At the same time, another fae blinked in and out of existence to strike him from behind.

  Nate intercepted it, and the wet sound of a blade through the lungs preceded its death gasp.

  It had been a calculated but flawed move, costly to the opposition. The fae injured by Arthur hissed at the other surviving attacker and spoke harsh, guttural words.

  This also tickled Arthur’s familiarity. Once, he’d known fae. He’d spoken it fluently.

  Nimue had taught him.

  It sounded like, She is coming.

  From the desperation in the shade’s tone, they feared whoever was soon to arrive. Arthur capitalized on that.

  Swinging at the creatures resulted in harmless strikes through the open air. He waited until it came after him again, drawing ragged breaths down his raw throat. The scent of dragonsbane made his head swim, but at least his opponent was mortally wounded.

  “Hold on,” Nate said, voice intense. “You got this, Arthur.”

  All his life, he’d wanted to hear those words. They were magic in their own right, invigorating him. He thrust forward in a mighty lunge, and the stroke skated past the edge of a wraith’s dagger, shattering it. His word point plunged into the fae’s throat.

  One remained, panicked and outnumbered.

  “Well. How the tables have turned,” Nate said.

  “Think we should take him pris—”

  The would-be assassin cried out and jerked, then a splatter of blood sprayed the floor before it in a line of inky droplets, accompanied by the sound of a sharp blade penetrating its victim and scraping bone.

  When the final assassin fell, none other than Nimue, Lady of the Lake, stood in his place. Her nonplussed expression and easy-going posture told him she hadn’t come to finish what his assailants started.

  “Well. My help certainly wasn’t needed. It appears the two of you had things perfectly in hand without my assistance.”

  “Your aid is welcomed just the same, Nimue,” Arthur said, shooting Nate a look meant to convey his I told you so.

  Nate shrugged. “Forget about that. When will the others wake from the enchantment?” He gestured to the snoozing group of knights around the table.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Galahad. Always such a pleasure to be in your company. Your comrades should be awake soon, but….” Her bright eyes slid half-shut with concentration before she asked, “Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “The same reason that Arthur resisted it, I imagine. I possess a portion of my wife’s soul,” Nate explained. “I can only assume that a dragon soul provided some magical resistance to the faerie slumber.”

  “Ah.” Nimue wiped her blade clean with soft linen then tucked the shimmering artifact away. She crouched to pluck one of the fallen weapons from the ground. “They came prepared with dragonsbane to slay Arthur, but they didn’t take into account that you’d be awake to assist him.”

  Nate glanced from the dead fae at his feet to Nimue and quirked a brow. His mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “I mean, that isn’t the only thing they didn’t take into account.”

  “Yeah. Seems they weren’t expecting your arrival,” Arthur said slyly, aiming a glance at the other knight, who reddened and looked away with a disgruntled mutter.

  “It would seem they were not.”

  One of the knights groaned, several stirring at last and showing signs of regaining consciousness. Nate excused himself and hurried to help Percivale up from the floor.

  Left with Nimue, Arthur finally glanced her over, taking in the casual mortal attire. Jeans and a leather jacket suited her better than all the robes, and spectacular faerie dresses ever had. “Why did you come to help us?”

  Hesitation flickered in her gaze. Uncertainty stilled her tongue. At last, she cleared her throat and said, “You’ve made a powerful enemy, Arthur. This was no normal attack. Queen Mab ordered your assassination.”

  As much as he wanted to kiss her, Arthur didn’t trust her either. The fae did nothing without intention and cold, calculating purpose. For her to have gone against the
assassins of Queen Mab could only mean she had another plan in store.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I don’t have one for you,” she said after a moment.

  Translation; she didn’t want to tell him the truth, and since fae couldn’t lie, she chose to avoid the question altogether. The only real question was, what truth was she trying to hide?

  Six

  Nimue didn’t look at Arthur for long, deciding that prolonged eye contact with the king was the path to ruin and failure. Every second nibbled another bite from her willpower when she couldn’t afford to catch feelings for the resurrected ruler.

  Too late, the arrogant voice of reason whispered.

  “When Merlin returns, ensure that he places the proper spells against my kind. This won’t be the last attempt made on your life.”

  “Nimue.”

  The enchantress backpedaled. She owed him nothing and done enough, even if it was the bare minimum. “You’ll have a short while before reinforcements arrive to carry out the task these three failed.”

  Arthur jerked her back to him by the wrist before she could pull her disappearing trick, anchoring her in place. “Talk to me. I need you to tell me what you know about this.”

  She scowled at him. The other knights gave them an unwanted audience to what felt like an intimate conversation.

  Time to change that.

  “I’ve told you everything I know. Queen Mab ordered your death. You won’t be safe until she calls it off now that every bloody fae across Elfhame will be out for your head. They’ll do anything for a scrap of favor from her.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “The best that you can do is bunker down and hide behind wards. Command your men from safety.”

  “Fuck that,” Arthur said heatedly. “I won’t hide while sending others into danger. Not from Titans and not from Mab.”

  His response didn’t surprise her. He’d always been a bull-headed, stubborn man, and inheriting dragon’s blood only intensified the kingly arrogance already present. It was a wonder he could hold his head up at all, given how swollen it had become with ego.